


The Iron Inheritance

by DivineProjectZero



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mildly Alternate Ending, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:06:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero
Summary: “So yeah. I, Anthony Edward Stark, am of sound mind and not stating this under duress, and making this my final will and testament before I go invent time travel and hopefully save the world without dying.” He wrinkles his nose. “I probably failed at the last part if you’re seeing this.”





	The Iron Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> Self-betaed. All mistakes are mine. Constructive feedback is always welcome.
> 
> I've taken a few liberties regarding the canon and the characterization. Harley Keener's age and survival of the snap is probably not canon but it worked better for this fic, so roll with it. 
> 
> Far From Home is going to be nothing like this and I don't care.

After everybody pays their respects at Mr. Sta—Tony’s funeral, after watching the arc reactor float away until Peter can barely see it, Happy and Pepper herd the guests back into the cabin. It’s a tight fit, but people squeeze their way in, shoulder to shoulder, easily sharing personal space after fighting in battle side by side. 

Happy stays outside, sitting on the porch bench, gesturing at Morgan when Peter sends him a quizzical look. “Can’t leave the kiddo out here. Besides,” he says in a quieter tone, “I already know what he’s gonna say.”

When Peter steps inside and starts to head towards Aunt May near the back, Captain America catches him by the arm, gentle in a way that makes Peter’s eyes water all over again. Without a word, he tugs him closer to the front, where people surround Pepper as she sets up a hologram projector with steady hands. Peter ends up standing behind a row of Avengers, all sitting in a semi-circle on various surfaces, his shoulder knocking into the guy with the metal arm—Bucky Barnes, he later realizes—that he remembers from Germany. He seems like he feels out of place as Peter does, unsure of whether he deserves to stand here, and that’s what drives Peter to paste on a wobbly smile and meet his eyes. The guy looks back, startled, then returns the gesture when Peter nods at him. They turn to look forward together.

“I’ve already seen the contents,” Pepper states, “and I’ll be conferring with Tony’s lawyer later because it’s not exactly legally binding. But as Tony’s primary heir, I agree with and support his decisions and I will see to it that his wishes are honored.”

It takes Peter a long, disorienting moment to process what she’s saying and understand what exactly this all means. A horrified, devastating kind of comprehension dawns on him when a hologram flickers to life, and Tony sits there, smiling.

“All right.” He rubs his hands together like a child on Christmas, and Peter’s chest aches. “Let’s get this ball rolling, because it’s a long list and none of us want to sit through a speech as long as the Freebird recording, so I’ll try to make it short and sweet. Morgan better not be watching, because it’s a little depressing and morbid for small children to witness this.”

Inside the cabin is dead silent. As if nobody even dares to breathe.

“So yeah. I, Anthony Edward Stark, am of sound mind and not stating this under duress, and making this my final will and testament before I go invent time travel and hopefully save the world without dying.” He wrinkles his nose. “I probably failed at the last part if you’re seeing this.”

Somebody in the back makes a choked noise, half-laugh and half-sob, and Peter doesn’t dare turn around to see who it is.

“Anyway! I might not be a multi-billionaire anymore—that’s what you get for the semi-apocalypse wrecking the economy—and just a billionaire, there’s still plenty enough to go around. I don’t know how many of us will survive this, but if anybody isn’t, well, around to collect, Pep knows what to do. So: Pepper and Morgan will inherit all of my assets remaining after I assign my presents to the class. Also, I have a few private gifts for the both of you. You know where to find it.”

Pepper smiles, her eyes glistening, and Peter looks away, back to the hologram.

“To James Rhodes,” Tony says, “I leave my terrible college memorabilia and all my cars. Except the Lamborghini Veneno and the limited edition Aston Martin, because Happy called dibs on those.” Rhodey chuckles, shaking his head. “I also have a special box for you, honey-bear. Pepper knows where it is, so ask her.”

“Speaking of Harold Hogan; I’m leaving you those two cars, as I just said, and also I’m giving you that super secret lair like you asked for. Yes, I actually made one. No, you may not become a super villain. Behave, and take care of my family for me, buddy. Take care of yourself, too.”

Peter glances out the window and catches a glimpse of Happy’s head, tilted protectively over what must be Morgan.

“To Bruce Banner, I leave all my research regarding, well, everything. And he gets custody of the secondary lab in the off-site facility center. I know you’ll treat my brain-children well, my science bro. And to Thor Odinson,” Tony continues, his words slowing down a little, “I’m leaving a special little something that’s been in the works for a while, and a hard drive. Friday’s going to get you sorted on both.” He pauses. “I hope it helps.”

Tony scratches the back of his neck, almost sheepish, but he carries on. “To Natasha Romanoff,” which elicits mournful grimaces, “I’m leaving the schematics for a new Avengers compound—because let’s face it, you need a fresh start either way—and all construction will be paid for. What would you do without me?” Tony laughs, and the sound of it is knives in Peter’s heart. “Oh, also, the New York State Orchid Garden? I own that, you know, and I’m leaving it to you. I know you’re secretly into the horticulture scene, so go take a break sometimes. You deserve it.”

“To Clint Barton.” Hawkeye blinks in what seems like surprise. “I leave my vacation home in Milwaukee and the quinjet I may or may not have upgraded in my spare time behind the shed. Also? I’ve heard you’ve pulled some dumb stunts that’ll look like shit on your resume, so I’m giving you the chance to even the score a little. I’m making you the official chairman of the Maria Stark Foundation. Please try not to break it.”

Tony pauses then, and says, “To Steve Rogers.”

Captain America straightens up and squares his shoulders, his hands twitching as if tempted to mimic parade rest. 

“I’m leaving you the shield.” Tony’s eyes flicker downwards, and Peter is sure that’s the end of it when Tony glances back up, almost as if making direct eye contact. “And complete ownership of the time travel tech.”

A short, shocked silence later, Tony blinks and clears his throat. “To Nebula, I leave my game collection. All of it. Including the holographic ones I designed. And to Rocket I leave the contents of the prototype weaponry vault.” A smiles ghosts Tony’s lips. “Have fun with it.”

“To Harley Keener, I leave the trust fund I set up for him ten years ago, which was supposed to be his surprise twenty-fifth birthday present, but you’re getting early access, kid. I’m also guaranteeing him a job at Stark Industries—starting at entry level, any department he wants—whenever he finishes his PhD and decides to join the workforce.”

Tony glances at his watch and grimaces. “Okay, Wong! I’m donating a million bucks to the Sanctum because you guys sorely need it. And _if_ Stephen Strange supreme sorcerer-izes his way back from the dead, you can give him that private library I told you about.”

Across the room, Peter sees a strange emotion cross Doctor Strange’s face before it’s gone in a matter of seconds. 

“To whatever shady organization Nick Fury is in charge of, or to that badass fucker himself if he comes back through sheer force of will, I’m leaving _absolutely nothing_.” Tony grins, mischief bright in the quirk of his mouth. “But Friday _might_ have a present for you in your servers.”

Peter hears a muffled _son of a bitch_ muttered from somewhere behind him.

“And look, I say all this, but I’m not sure if this is gonna work. Maybe making a will where I give stuff to people who _might_ return from the dead is just wishful thinking.” Tony shrugs with a wry smile. “But if we pull this goddamn miracle off, and we get everybody back—if we get him back—”

Tony trails off with a waver, blinking rapidly, before he clears his throat and clasps his hands together like he’s uttering a silent prayer.

“I leave ten percent of my liquid assets and my primary laboratory, all contents included, to Peter Parker.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd and Peter feels the ground tilt beneath his feet, his breath going funny in his chest, the weight of those words crashing down on him, and it takes every ounce of his enhanced strength to not break down into tears right there and then. 

-

After the funeral, people start drifting apart, huddling into groups and slowly making their way home. Superheroes that Peter recognizes confer with ones he’s less familiar with; the people who came with their families stick closer to each other in wordless comfort; some people leave without a backwards glance.

Inside the cabin, May is in a frazzled panic the way all adults seem to experience when they’re suddenly given responsibilities they can barely fathom, but Pepper and Happy are there to help her breathe through it, so Peter isn’t too worried. Actually, he’s too numb to feel pretty much anything except a bottomless, hollow despair.

“Hey.” Somebody taps his shoulder, and Peter jolts, turning around. “Woah, sorry there. You’re Peter, right?”

The guy is nearly a head taller and definitely a handful of years older than Peter. His smile is a little awkward, but his stance is relaxed and his eyes are friendly. Curious, too. “I am. Uh, and you are?”

“Harley,” he offers, extending a hand, and Peter shakes it as the name sinks in. “You know, we were actually born the same year.”

The words feel like a punch to the gut. “2001?”

“Yeah,” Harley says, as if he hasn’t just upended Peter’s world like an 8.0-degree earthquake. “He never talked about you. Like, ever. Even when I asked, he’d just clam up then change the topic.”

“Oh.” This actually hurts worse than the time Tony took away his suit.

Harley slants his eyes at him like he can tell exactly what Peter is thinking. “I didn’t talk to him that often anyway—busy with the world half-ending and college, all that stuff—so the topic never came up much, but when I turned eighteen, he just kinda looked at me like I was a ghost and said your eighteenth birthday was supposed to be next month.”

Tony remembered Peter’s birthday, Peter thinks distantly. He’d sent a present on Peter’s sixteenth, yes, so he knew it, obviously, but he’d remembered it for years after, even when Peter was gone. He doesn’t know why this catches him off-guard so much.

“It’s not that he didn’t care,” Harley says slowly, like Peter needs this spelled out for him. “He just cared too much, you know?”

_If you even cared, you’d actually be here_ whispers across his mind.

“I didn’t want to be a bad memory,” Peter says, hating how small his voice is.

“He wanted you to be alive, not to be a memory,” Harley corrects. He sounds so mature, and Peter feels so young. His world is pulling apart at the seams. “And for what it’s worth, I know he’d have been glad to have you back.”

With that, Harley pats Peter’s shoulder, then walks away.

-

Days after the funeral, while the world scrambles to gather its wits and reunite two halves across a five-year gap, Peter knocks on the door to the Sanctum. 

After a moment, the door opens, nobody behind it, and it takes Peter a moment to realize that this is a magic thing. He steps inside, the door closing behind him, and he wonders where exactly to go and whether it’s rude to go around somebody else’s property yelling out a name. 

“Peter Parker.” Doctor Strange floats down the staircase, his cloak billowing out behind him, and for a moment Peter feels a tinge of awe. 

Then he remembers _fourteen-million futures_ and _it was the only way_. Remembers the look flashing across Doctor Strange’s face back at the cabin. 

“I don’t recall giving you this address.”

“Happy told me.” Technically, Happy only told him the street name, and Peter had simply walked along until his spider-senses prickled in front of this building. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Doctor Strange’s feet touch the ground in front of him, his eyes intent on Peter’s. He must sense what’s about to come, because there’s another flicker of that same emotion Peter witnessed the day of Tony’s funeral. Something almost like guilt. Like shame.

“You knew.” It’s not really a question, more like a definite statement, but he says it like he’s daring Doctor Strange to deny it anyway. “You knew all along.”

There’s so many ways to take those words, but all of them come down to this one question, and the answer is in the way Doctor Strange closes his eyes and bows his head. “I did.”

“You knew we’d lose on that planet.” He feels like he’s choking on his grief and anger. “You knew he’d have a family and that the world would go to pieces and that he’d die to save us all anyway. You _knew_ , and you let it happen.”

“I did,” Doctor Strange confirms. He looks at his upturned palms. Murmurs, “I swore an oath to do no harm, and yet.”

The words knock something loose in Peter’s chest. “Why didn’t you save him?”

“It was the only way to save the world,” Doctor Strange says, and Peter wants to scream at him, but the sorcerer gives him a pitying look. “This was the only way to save Tony, too.”

All the words catch in Peter’s throat. “What?” He croaks.

“Of all the futures I saw, this was the one where he lived the most fulfilling and longest life. All the others, he died on Titan or at any point up to this year. There was no other future where he didn’t die in despair. This was the longest and happiest he lived, no matter what we did. What I did.” He looks away. “This was the only way to let him die in peace.”

_That can’t be true,_ Peter wants to say, but he believes this man anyway, because he wants it to be the truth. That this was Tony’s happiest ending. Because if he doesn’t believe it, he’ll never stop being haunted by how Tony could have been saved. 

“Why did it have to be him?” He asks instead, his voice breaking and his vision going blurry. He tries his best to blink the tears away, then feels a comforting weight wrapping around him, a soft fabric wiping at his eyes. 

It’s Doctor Strange’s cloak, he realizes, draping itself around his shoulders like a warm blanket and snuggling his cheek. 

“It likes you,” Doctor Strange observes, before making a hand gesture that makes the world shift, leaving Peter floundering as he realizes they’ve somehow teleported into seats at a dining table. “What do kids even drink these days. Juice? Tea? Are you old enough for coffee?”

“Juice is fine,” Peter answers instinctively.

Doctor Strange waves his hand, and suddenly there’s a glass of orange juice and a steaming mug of coffee on the table. “Right, well. I don’t have a good answer for you, but I can give you my best guess: Tony Stark wanted to save the world, but the world can’t ever be truly saved. There’s always another disaster. Another threat. A world saved once is not a world saved forever, and people like him don’t know how to stop.” He fingers the amulet around his neck, even though Peter knows it must be empty. “They don’t know how to save themselves.”

Peter thinks of Doctor Strange screaming as glass pierced his skin in a spaceship hurtling across the galaxy. He thinks of going to homecoming with a girl he worshipped and turning his back on her. He thinks he understands.

“In all the futures I saw, Tony never stopped being Iron Man. No matter how many times he gave up, no matter how many times he said he was done, he always came back and fought to the end. Even when he was the last man standing. Even when there was no hope at all.” 

_Because if we can’t protect the earth, you can be damn well sure we’ll avenge it_ , Tony once recited to Peter, one of those rare moments when he’d told every story Peter wanted to know, honest and quiet and true. _And then the bastard threw me out a window_.

“He was a hero, and nobody could save him from that.”

Peter laughs, the sound of it raw as it scrapes its way out his throat. “He was _my_ hero.” He blinks away the threat of tears blurring his vision. “I hope he really knew that.”

He doesn’t think he ever said it that honestly. He expressed the sentiment plenty of times over the past couple years, but he’s not sure if the message reached Tony. If he knew how much he meant to Peter, how Peter owed so much to Tony and wanted to spend the rest of his life making Tony proud. If he knew Peter how much he’d adored Tony like he’d adored Ben.

“He cared for you just as much as you did for him,” Doctor Strange says with an unexpected kindness. “Every future you died broke him. Every future he traded his life for yours, he did it gladly.”

Peter feels like crying all over again. “Would it have been better,” he finally asks, because it’s a question that’s been creeping into his skin for a while now, “if I’d went home like he said? Did I make things worse by going on that spaceship, that day?”

Doctor Strange drums his fingers against the polished wood, and Peter notices the jagged scars on his hands for the first time. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he cared about you enough to save the world on a wild hunch.” He makes a contemplative sound. “Enough to rewrite a will just for you.” 

“I don’t need any of it,” Peter says on auto-pilot. He said as much to Pepper and Happy and May. “I don’t want that kind of money.”

“Then what do you want?”

_I want him to be alive_ , Peter thinks with a furious grief so bright it nearly blinds him. _I want him to make me a new suit. I want him to give me missions. I want him to mentor me. I want him to be there at my graduation. I want him to be alive and happy and_ proud _of me._

Instead, he says, “I want everything to go back to normal.”

Doctor Strange smiles, crooked and regretful. “I suppose all the money in the world couldn’t give you that.”

“What about you?” Peter watches the way Doctor Strange rubs at the joints of his hands methodically, as if soothing away an old ache. “What do you want?”

“To have traded places with him,” he answers immediately. The cloak around Peter twitches.

Peter takes a long gulp of his juice, slow enough to process that, then sets his glass down. “Sounds like a donation and a library aren’t going to give you that.”

That surprises a genuine chuckle out of Doctor Strange. He looks younger when he smiles. “You’re right, they won’t. All I can do is use it to prepare for whatever the world throws at us next.”

Something deep in Peter’s chest squirms at the very thought. “Well, hopefully it stays quiet for a while.”

“Hopefully,” Doctor Strange echoes.

Later, as Peter heads towards the front door, Doctor Strange addresses him by his first name for the first time.

“Queens isn’t too far away from here.” He waves his hand and a piece of paper with a phone number drops into Peter’s hand. “If you ever need assistance, regardless of the nature of the problem, you can give me a call. Or drop by.”

On impulse, Peter asks, “Can I come by even when there’s no problem?”

Doctor Strange pauses, then shrugs off-handedly. “I suppose so.”

The obviously flustered response makes Peter grin, and his smile only grows wider when he waves goodbye and the cloak waves back.

-

He runs into Thor completely by chance. 

One moment, Peter’s in an elevator in a Manhattan skyscraper because he had to go tell Tony’s lawyer that no, he didn’t need all this money that suddenly appeared in his bank account, please take it back, when the elevator dings open and he comes face to face with a very familiar blond man.

“Uh, Mr. Thor?” He’s not sure how to address a superhero Norse god. “Sir?”

Thor blinks at him, and for a moment Peter wonders if Thor doesn’t recognize him, and then he breaks into a blinding smile. “You! Tony’s protege, isn’t it? Erm, Paul?”

“Peter, sir.”

“Peter, right.” It’s strange how his words sound as natural as if he was born and raised on this planet, and yet the cadence of his voice carries an otherworldly quality that Peter can’t quite put a finger on. “And there’s no need for the sir; you may call me Thor.” 

“Thor.” Peter belatedly realizes that having this conversation while halfway in an elevator is a terrible idea, and steps out into the lobby where Thor turns so they can talk by the wall instead of stand in anybody’s way. “I thought you lived in Norway.”

“I had a legal matter to settle before I left,” Thor says, and Peter realizes he must be here to see Tony’s lawyer as well. “Our friend Tony,” Thor says—Peter is weirdly grateful that Thor’s voice doesn’t hitch on Tony’s name—“decided to establish a foundation dedicated to rebuilding and improving New Asgard, and I am to examine the plans today.”

It sounds exactly like something Tony would do, casually changing people’s lives just because he can. “That’s amazing.”

“He is.” Thor nods solemnly. “But what moves me more is his gift to me.”

Peter doesn’t remember what else Tony bestowed to Thor in his will. “What was it?”

“A hard drive,” Thor says, “that contained records of our victories and old legends of my deeds. Lists of survivors from every disaster we prevailed against. Messages of gratitude from many of those who we were able to protect.” His voice is soft, nearly inaudible. “Evidence of all those we saved, regardless of our failures.”

“You were incredible,” Peter says, because he remembers his early teen years gawking at how badass Thor was on the television screen. “You still are.”

Even when he’s much more heavyset and a little more unkempt than he is in Peter’s memories, Thor has an undeniable godliness about him. It’s in the way he smiles with a king’s grandeur and stands with a warrior’s confidence, his eyes older than anybody else’s and his joy like a child’s. Peter thinks Thor will always be a hero, no matter what he looks like or where he goes.

“You too, my friend, are worthy of much praise.” Thor claps a heavy hand to Peter’s back, and the warmth seeps in through his shirt. “I see why Tony esteemed you so highly.”

Peter’s throat tightens at those words, and he barely manages to not choke when he bids Thor goodbye.

-

“You’re sure?” Happy asks. 

“I’m sure,” Peter says for what seems like the fourteenth time as he settles back in the plush seat of the Aston Martin. “Happy, I really don’t need that much money. I mean, sure, May and I aren’t extravagantly rich, but we’re happy, and I know Tony was making sure May was doing okay while I was, uh, gone.” 

It still surprises him sometimes, turning around to see May older than he remembers her, or saying something about that happened just a few months ago, only to realize that it’s actually been years since then. He barely feels the lost time; it’d felt like falling into the darkness one moment, then blinking his eyes open the very next. 

“Not many people would turn down a hundred million bucks,” Happy has the gall to say when Peter _knows_ that Happy turned down an incredibly generous offering from Tony ages ago, accepting only just enough to live comfortably for the next several decades. “If it bothers you so much, you can just take it and donate it straight to charity.”

“That’s different,” Peter grouses.

Happy squints at him for a second before he turns his attention back to the road. “It really isn’t.”

Peter doesn’t explain that it _is_ different to him, because he’s not actually sure how to explain it. He doesn’t really have an explanation at all, because logically, Happy’s right. But against all logic, Peter knows there’s a fundamental difference there.

“All right, here we are,” Happy says, sounding a little excited, and Peter doesn’t see what’s so special about the tiny half-constructed rest stop at the edge of a forest. It’s fenced off with a Do Not Enter sign and is so barebones that there’s simply no way to hide a secret lair or even a doorway to one. Not to mention the fact that Happy’s somehow driven to the side of the site opposite of where the fence’s gates are.

Then again, Peter lives in a world that has aliens and Norse gods and real sorcerers.

“Okay, watch this.” Happy takes a brief look to make sure nobody’s around—they’re off the main road and on a basically abandoned stretch of dirt road by the forest, of course nobody is there—and then drives _straight into the fence_.

“Jesus,” Peter squeaks, as the car passes right through into what looks like a modern car garage. When Happy stops the car, the garage doors slide shut behind them, and then the whole floor shoots downwards, like a turbo elevator for cars. Before he knows it, the elevator stops moving and another set of doors open in front of them. “Holy shit.”

It _is_ a secret lair. There’s screens and holograms everywhere, with at least one more car and two motorcycles parked aside in the wide open space, and there’s a series of lockers along one wall. There’s not a whole lot of weaponry or tech otherwise, but that kind of stuff would be easy to conceal. 

“Welcome to the lair,” Happy says with relish, and Peter can hardly blame him. He’d be eager to show off something like this, too. “Hidden by a combination of force field and cloaking tech, and specialized for remote support and supervision.”

“Supervision?” Like Ned’s guy in the chair, Peter thinks, but he’s not sure for whom. “For the Avengers?”

“For you, technically,” Happy says. Something about that makes Peter’s chest squeeze too tight around his ribcage. “But also for anybody who might fall under the umbrella of young fledgling superhero who might need a bit of guidance before they graduate fully to Avengerhood.”

Peter doesn’t understand, until he does. “You think there’s going to be more like me. Kids with superpowers who want to fight.”

“We know there’s more.” Happy leans against one of the consoles of what Peter now recognizes as a command center. “And look, it’s not great to have kids fighting any battles when adults should be doing that, but you know how it is. Kids won’t stop just because we tell them to.”

Peter knows.

“So this is our way of at least making sure nobody gets killed, and that they stay within a safety net. And if things go to hell, at least somebody will know to get backup for them.”

“Tony said,” and Peter hates how he still stumbles on Tony’s name, “you asked for this.”

Happy chews his lip, then looks Peter in the eye. “Kid, you know I wasn’t exactly great at being your go-to adult when we started out. But I’ve gotten better at it, and I’m willing to try my hardest to keep you and any other kids alive and in one piece. I know you’re an Avenger, but you’re still a kid keeping your identity a secret, so I’m telling you this: you don’t have to do this alone. Tony wouldn’t want you to do it alone.”

Peter grits his teeth together and wills himself to keep his composure. It takes a moment, and his voice is hoarse, but at least he doesn’t cry when he says, “Thank you, Happy.”

Happy shrugs and offers a hand. “Pleasure to work with you, Spider-man.” 

The bottom of Peter’s stomach turns over at the name, for some reason, but he staunchly ignores it. Instead, he shakes Happy’s hand and grins as convincingly as he can. “I’m leaving myself in your care, Happy.”

The corner of Happy’s mouth ticks upwards in a fond smile. “He told me to take care of his family, after all.”

-

He goes up to the old Avengers facility to check-in with the new team leader and the sight of the demolished compound breaks his heart a little. There are construction workers clearing the debris and salvaging what they can, a handful of Sanctum sorcerers pitching in to reach the trickier areas, and various Avengers picking their way through the wreckage. Some areas are somewhat intact, and that’s where Peter runs into Bruce—Hulk? Bruce-Hulk? Hulk-Bruce?—Banner.

“Hey, I heard you’re pretty strong,” he says, gesturing at the pile of bulging boxes of equipment, then his own arm in a sling. “Could you help me out a little?”

“Of course!” It’s nice, Peter realizes, to be able to freely use his abilities for mundane purposes in front of other people. He’s been able to do it with May and Ned for a while now, but it isn’t really the same when he still has to hide behind a mask or behind the walls of his own home. “Er, Mr. Banner?”

“Bruce is fine,” Bruce says serenely, which is bizarre coming from the Hulk’s mouth. Peter still isn’t sure what the hell happened to him during this whole time skip deal. It’s even weirder than when he went back to school and ran into Ned’s younger cousin, who was now older than both of them. “You’re Peter, right? Spider-man?”

Peter stomps down on the twinge in his chest. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Five years is a long time for anybody.” Bruce leads the way to a parked truck at the edge of a paved road. Away from the central din of construction vehicles and people yelling, the atmosphere here is calm. Nearly as idyllic as Peter remembers it, as if the world didn’t almost end right here weeks ago. “But it’s especially long when you’re a teenager. You adjusting okay?”

Peter takes care not to jostle his two boxes and takes the time setting them in the trunk to think it over. There’s something about Bruce’s presence, imposing size and renowned genius intellect aside, that makes Peter want to give a sincere answer. “It’s…hard. But it’s hard for everybody, and—this sounds so bad—that makes it easier?”

Bruce nods, like Peter hasn’t just sounded like an unheroic jerk. “That’s completely normal. Experiencing a collective trauma means that everybody understands what you’re going through, and thus share the healing process together. It makes you feel less alone in a hard time.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” He’d found out that one of his classmates had died five years ago, when a driver had turned to dust and the empty car had driven straight through a storefront and into her. She’d worked on a group project with him before. Had been Ned’s partner on their latest chemistry project. It’d been easier to ease into the shock with Ned and their other newly returned classmates, left behind an unbridgeable gap of five years. “But some things I just.” His throat closes up again. “I can’t share with the others.”

“You mean the whole fighting-to-save-the-world part,” Bruce guesses, and it’s partially correct. He observes the half-hearted nod Peter gives him as they head back to get the remaining boxes. “Something else is bothering you, huh?”

“It’s nothing.” He’s ready to make more excuses, but Bruce simply gives him a thoughtful glance and nods, like he’s willing to take Peter’s word for it. 

They load up the rest of the boxes in companionable silence, then Bruce asks, sheepish, “Can you drive? I can’t really fit into the cab, so I usually ask somebody else.”

“Oh, uh, I can drive,” Peter says, “but I didn’t get my license yet.” 

Bruce chuckles. “I’ve seen you do much more dangerous things than drive without a license. As long as you can drive safely on a straight road, I think you’ll do just fine.”

Just before all of this, Peter had been learning how to drive in empty parking lots out in the suburbs with May in the passenger seat, even mastering parallel parking. It was something he’d been working on ever since he completely destroyed Flash’s dad’s car by accident. So he takes the keys from Bruce and turns the key in the ignition as Bruce squeezes himself along with the boxes in the trunk. 

It’s only a ten-minute drive away, and Peter realizes where exactly they are when he parks and sees the signage next to the front door.

“The secondary lab,” Peter says under his breath.

“Tony wanted to have a facility a little separated from the main compound. He needed a little space where he didn’t have to be a full-time Avenger,” Bruce explains as they unload the boxes and take them in, two by two. 

Finally, when all the boxes are strewn across two different counters, Peter takes a moment to look around and marvel at the setup of the whole place. 

“You can look at anything you want.” Bruce waves his hand towards the holographic screens and the gamma spectrometers. “I know Tony specifically equipped this lab to fit my specialties, but I’m sure there’s still enough research regarding robotics you might want to take back to your lab.”

Peter flinches the tiniest bit at that, and Bruce doesn’t miss it.

“Have you been to the lab at all yet?” There’s no recrimination in his tone, only curiosity, but Peter feels the shame churn in his gut anyway. More than that, he feels a panicked kind of fear, like the prospect of even seeing the lab Tony left behind scares him. 

“I didn’t—I just,” Peter babbles, “I told them I couldn’t have it, so I’m not going there, ever, and somebody smarter than me or was closer to Tony than me or just somebody better than me should have it, and—”

“Okay, slow down.” A giant hand rubs Peter’s back, and he appreciates the pressure of it, how it’s less gentle and more firm. Peter’s a mixed bag of emotions that make no sense these days. “It’s okay if you haven’t been there. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I got the Orchid Garden, you know, the one Natasha was supposed to have. I still can’t bring myself to visit there.” There’s a faraway look in his eyes that he blinks away after a moment. “But do you think you don’t deserve to have it? Because I’m pretty sure Tony disagrees with that.”

And how could Peter ever deny Tony this, one of the last choices he made to be upheld after his death. 

And yet.

“I can’t have it,” Peter says, his voice scratchy as he fails to stop a stray tear from sliding down his cheek.

To his credit, Bruce pretends not to notice it. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both,” Peter says, and his thoughts echo _I don’t want it_.

Bruce must have figured something out from Peter’s response, because his eyes go soft in understanding. The way shared pain means shared understanding. “I miss him too.”

Peter doesn’t dare say the words aloud, but he agrees wholeheartedly.

After Peter drives them back to the compound, Bruce sticks his hand out and says, “You can call me anytime, okay? I could use some new science friends, regardless of whether they have labs or not.”

Swallowing his tears and gratitude, Peter shakes his hand, feeling large fingers engulf his hand warmly, and thinks of shared pain and shared understanding. Of healing together.

-

While winding his way through the remains of the compound in search of Sam Wilson, Peter finds Rhodey instead, flying about in his War Machine suit as he directs the workers about. He notices Peter immediately and flies down to make a heavy landing a few feet away. “Peter!” His faceplate slips open. “Sam said something about having you here today. You seen him yet?”

“I was actually kinda looking for him,” Peter says. It’s weird. He’s met Rhodey several times over the last—six or seven years ago. But this Rhodey hasn’t seen Peter in five years, has grown older while Peter was away lost in time, and they didn’t really talk much at the funeral, either. It’s their first time talking since Tony died. 

“I know where he is. He’s outside trying to figure out where to build the new Avengers compound off the schematics Tony left us. I’ll take you,” Rhodey offers, and leads the way. “How’ve you been holding up?”

“Okay, I think.” Peter thinks about the new wrinkles on May’s face. His school where he doesn’t know half of the people there anymore. The nightmares he has of Tony and charred skin and an arc reactor going dark. “Not great, but doable.”

Rhodey hums, and something about the disingenuous tone of it makes Peter suspect that he doesn’t buy Peter’s vague bullshit. “Doable is a word I use for driving all the cars that Tony retrofitted to make it easier for me to drive them. It’s not a word I’d use for a kid who recently went through some stuff no kid ever should.”

“Shuri is the same age as me!” She’s actually one of his most frequently messaged WhatsApp contacts now, second only to Ned. It’s comforting to have a friend his age who knows what it’s like, losing time and being a kid who isn’t quite normal. 

Rhodey snorts. “Yeah, I’m not super jazzed about her fighting in a war either, princess or not, but what can you do. Desperate times and all that.” He shoots Peter an unimpressed look. “And nice try, changing the topic. But seriously, I know all this sudden change can’t be easy, and there’s nothing wrong with being less than okay, you know.”

“It sucks, to be honest,” Peter admits, because this much he can say aloud without feeling like he’s being shredded apart from the inside. “But I know I’m gonna be okay, you know? I just need some time.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Rhodey flexes his fingers, and it’s amazing to watch how fluidly the suit replicates the gesture, how flawlessly the suit accommodates the support Rhodey needs for his legs. “It takes a while to adjust. Especially when you’ve lost people.”

Rhodey was a soldier. He still is. The reminder of it makes Peter want to give in, to cling to the memories of Rhodey and Tony laughing together as they invite Peter to join in, and to fall apart to finally examine the pieces of himself that he doesn’t understand anymore. Peter has to bite on his tongue until he tastes copper to hold it in.

“I know Tony meant a lot to you.” Rhodey doesn’t stumble on Tony’s name, but he skims past it, like he can’t afford to delve into just how much it means to him. 

“He changed my life,” Peter says. 

“And I think you changed his,” Rhodey says without pause. Like it’s an immutable truth. “He was better after meeting you.” His voice is unbearably kind when he continues, “You meant a lot to him, too.”

Peter doesn’t think he can manage any words after that, so he locks his grief behind his gritted teeth and mourns all the lost time he’ll never have with Tony within the too-small space within his ribcage. He feels like he could splinter apart from all the things he doesn’t know how to say.

After a while, Rhodey sighs and gives in. “Yeah, well, I’m not gonna badger you about anything you don’t wanna talk about. But if you ever feel _not_ okay and wanna talk about it? Hit me up, and I’ll be there.”

That’s the second offer to be Peter’s emotional support adult that he’s received today, and something about that makes Peter’s chest ache, but in a good way. Like it hurts less.

“Thank you,” Peter chokes out, just as Sam Wilson comes into view.

“Any time, kid. Any time.”

-

After checking in with the new Captain America and being assigned to sticking close to home for now, Peter comes across a spaceship.

It’s tragic that this is only the second proper spaceship Peter has seen that isn’t completely wrecked or Thanos’s huge hellship, even though he’s been to _outer space_ , so he might be silently geeking out over it. He circles it and checks out the blasters, wistfully wondering if Tony had any part in building this, when a blue head pops out of the open cargo door. “What do you want?”

“Oh my god, sorry, I didn’t know you were inside,” Peter yelps, because this lady is more intimidating than Bruce in Hulk form. He remembers her from Titan and the funeral, but it takes him a harrowing moment to recall her name. “Nebula, right? We fought together on that red planet?”

“Peter Parker,” she says, cocking her head and considering him with a narrow gaze. “You were the last one to turn to dust on Titan.”

He winces a little at the blunt wording, but there’s a refreshing aspect of talking to an adult who doesn’t mince their words for him. Even if it involves her pointing out that very embarrassing moment he cried like a kid in Tony’s arms while he felt himself fade away. “Not exactly my proudest moment.”

“It wasn’t Tony's, either.” She must have been the only one to see Tony’s reaction after Peter disappeared, he realizes. She was the only one who came home with Tony. “He never really did get over that.”

There’s a certain kind of guilt festering in Peter’s stomach, one that tangles itself into knots over whether he was more of a burden to Tony than a benefit, ever since the funeral, ever since he realized in the Sanctum that he couldn’t have saved Tony no matter how hard he would have tried. 

He finds himself blurting, “I feel like he would have been better off without me.”

Nebula blinks once, slow and thoughtful. “You were an asset on Titan, and also in the battlefield on Earth.”

“No, I mean, yes, that too, but.” He swallows down the hurt of the very prospect but pushes it out into the open anyway, looking down at the ground to steady himself. “Like, I think I made things worse just by being in his life.” No matter what everybody else said. He can’t shake off that creeping sense of blame. “He’d have been happier if I’d never met him. If I’d never died on him.”

_And if you died, I feel like that’s on me_ , Tony’s voice echoes through his memories. 

He doesn’t dare look up, his face burning with shame and regret, but then he hears footsteps and sees the tips of Nebula’s boots come into view. Blue fingers—warmer than he would have ever guessed, and isn’t that the surprise with Avengers, that they are more human than anybody really knows—tip his chin up so he’s face to face with serious eyes. 

“Thanos killed my sister,” she says, and images of Nebula’s despair and Peter Quill’s rage flickers across his memory. “And she made me who I am. I will never get her back, even if a different version of her is out there somewhere, and that is more painful than I care to explain.” She pauses. “But a life where I never met her would have been infinitely duller and more painful, and I don’t regret losing her, if it means that I had her in my life at all.”

Tony made Peter who he is, too. He wonders if he made Tony who he is, even a little bit, and it terrifies him that he thinks he might know the answer to that.

“Would you rather have not met Tony Stark at all?” Nebula asks. “Or would you have had him in your life, no matter how short, even if it meant you’d know what it would be like to lose him?”

_I’d rather have never known him, if only to not lose him_ , Peter thinks, and even before he finishes the thought he knows it’s a lie. 

Nebula must read his thoughts on his face—frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised at all if she were capable of telepathy—because she lets go of him with a decisive nod. “It was the same for him.”

Satisfied, she turns and starts to walk away, but Peter calls her to a halt with a question that’s been bugging him for a while. It’s the only thing he remembers clearly from the hologram recording, aside from his own share. “Why did he leave you his games?”

She turns halfway, not quite facing him when she says, “We used to play them. He taught me how to play a new one every time I visited, and sometimes I won.”

There’s more to that story, he thinks, but he doesn’t pry. 

He knows she probably won’t stick around, that she has places to go out there in the galaxy with the rest of the Guardians, but he still asks, “Can I play them with you sometime?”

She does look at him then, surprise smoothing the scariness from her face, and then she turns away again, her feet already moving when she says, “Maybe.”

It’s the closest he’s going to get to a yes. Peter smiles, the knots loosening in his chest.

-

There’s a talking raccoon in the half-wrecked aircraft hangar. 

“Who the hell are you?” The raccoon demands, and Peter knew the raccoon was at the funeral, but he never realized it—he? they?—could talk. He thought it was like the walking tree, who apparently said _I am Groot_ as a means of expressing its grief. He’s a little ashamed by his preconceptions. 

“I’m, uh, Peter?” He stutters, feeling a little cowed by a three-foot raccoon menacingly wielding a screwdriver. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t exactly lose in a fight, but then again, maybe the raccoon breathes fire or shoots lasers. Who knows. “And you are…sir?”

“Sir?” The raccoon repeats in delight, perking up. “Sir. Well, that has a nice ring to it. You.” He points at Peter with the screwdriver, apparently appeased. “I like you.”

Peter tries not to give away how utterly confused he is. And fails. “Thank you?”

“I’m Rocket,” the raccoon says, back to working on whatever contraption he’s building. It looks like a power source, but it might be a bomb. It’s hard to tell. “So, Peter, huh? We have a Peter too. Dumb as a box of Arkavian slugs, but he’s tolerable on some days.”

“I met him.” They’d fought against each other for a brief minute, then had fought together. “He tried to kill me.”

“Eh.” Rocket shrugs. “We all tried to kill each other at some point.” 

Peter is starting to wonder if attempted murder is some sort of alien bonding ritual, because it actually makes a horrifying kind of sense. “Uh.”

Rocket tinkers with his maybe-bomb for another moment, then he says, “You’re Stark’s Peter.”

“I, well. He was my mentor?” Peter wouldn’t dare call himself Tony’s anything. _Tony’s emotional baggage_ feels more accurate, these days. “Kinda my sponsor? In superhero stuff. And sometimes science stuff. Personal life stuff too, once in a while, but it wasn’t really—” 

“Family ain’t just blood, kid,” Rocket cuts in easily, and Peter feels cut off at the knees, sliced open from the inside-out. “Stark sure as hell didn’t put you in his will because he thought you were just some kid to show the ropes to.”

Peter thinks of the unfathomable amount of money he can’t bear to accept. Of a laboratory empty of Tony that Peter can’t even stomach the idea of stepping into. He isn’t sure whether he wishes Tony had never left him anything in the first place or if he’s grateful that Tony even bothered to include him on a list of people he wanted to give pieces of himself to. 

A list of people he cared about.

“Then again, the bastard left _me_ something, too. Never said a single good word to me and banned me from the goddamn prototype weaponry vault years ago and _now_ he lets me have it.” Rocket stabs at his potential bomb a lot harder than necessary. “What an asshole.”

“But he gave it to you anyway,” Peter says.

“For no good reason at all.” Rocket stabs the thing again. “I never said a single good word to him, either. But he still—there was a suit, in the vault.” His voice wavers. Cracks open. “He made me a _suit_.”

And Peter knows, more than anything now, what that means. He knows from the way Tony made him a suit with its own AI and ridiculously named protocols. He knows from how quickly Tony had sent a suit in a matter of seconds that fit him like a glove and protected him even across a galaxy. 

He knows from _if you’re nothing without the suit, you shouldn’t have it_.

Tony Stark made suits to protect people. To save people the best as he can. He made suits for the people he cared about.

Tony cared. About Rocket. About Peter. More than he ever let on. 

-

He’s been sitting at the edge of a rooftop for twenty minutes when he realizes he’s not alone.

“I’m usually better at sensing when I’m being followed,” Peter remarks when Hawkeye drops down to sit beside him. 

“And I used to be paid to follow people who are good at sensing being followed,” Hawkeye shoots back. He dangles his legs carelessly over the ledge much like Peter is doing, except Peter can stick to walls while Hawkeye, as far as Peter knows, would probably fall straight into the dumpster below if he’s not careful. “Good thing nobody knows what you look like under the mask, or you’d be in trouble.”

Peter smiles. It’s starting to feel a little more natural again, to smile and laugh and let the happiness wash through him, instead of drowning in his despair. “Are all of them as good as the amazing Hawkeye?”

Hawkeye barks a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth, and he looks so ordinary in this moment. Like he hasn’t tracked down Peter from his school and followed him up a rooftop without Peter’s enhanced senses noticing. Like he couldn’t shoot a penny fifty feet away without even looking at it. “Oh man, I see why Tony liked you so much. Everybody’s been raving about you.”

“They have?” Peter asks, taken aback. He’s barely done anything even vaguely heroic in the past five weeks. He tried to put on the mask four days ago and had hyperventilated to the point where he’d stayed crumpled on the floor for an hour, gasping, eyes stinging with tears. He’s nothing to talk about in front of heroes who saved whole cities and planets. 

“I mean, Bruce said you’re a good kid, and Rhodey’s got you saved on his phone as Spider-kiddo—don’t tell him I sneaked a look through his phone contacts, I don’t need him to tattle to Laura—and nicknames from him? Are only for the special ones.” Hawkeye quirks a wry grin that makes Peter wonder if Hawkeye isn’t on the list of people with nicknames. “Also, Nebula said your actual name twice in the span of an hour, which is pretty much a gold star of approval from her, according to Rocket.”

Peter feels a warm flush of embarrassment and happiness bloom in his chest. “Wow. That’s. That’s really nice.”

“I had a meeting earlier.” Hawkeye gestures in the direction of Manhattan, which explains the suit and tie. “So I figured I’d drop by and see what the fuss was about.”

“Too bad you caught me on my day off,” Peter says, trying not to squirm with shame. He knows, logically, that he doesn’t need to prove himself as Spider-man in front of every superhero he comes across, but he wants the approval nonetheless. Wants to prove that Tony was right to believe in him. “I left the mask at home today.”

Hawkeye looks at him with sharp eyes that seem to see right through Peter. “It’s fine. I’m not here to talk to Spider-man. I’m here to see Peter Parker.”

There’s no difference, really, because Peter _is_ Spider-man, but lately he isn’t so sure. It’s like he’s forgetting how to be Spider-man. The suit that used to fit him like a second skin is so suffocating now, and he doesn’t know why it’s so hard to put on the mask. This isn’t like the immediate days following the night he fought Liz’s dad. Nothing like the nights when he felt so claustrophobic he couldn’t breathe; the times he had to claw off the mask because all he could remember was the ceiling falling in and crushing him. It’s not the memories of fading to nothing on Titan or the red-hot panic of being in a war zone, even if both of those will haunt him in the quietest moments when he’s wallowing. This is something else. 

He thinks it’s _himself_ that he’s scared of, but that makes no sense at all.

Peter slams a lid on that train of thought. “So…what do you think of Peter Parker, then?”

“That the others were right,” Hawkeye says, turning his head to look at the horizon. “That Tony was right. That you’re a good kid, regardless of whether you’re wearing a mask or not.” He pauses. “And that you’re a kid.”

_I’m sick of him treating me like a kid all the time_ , Peter once said. He meant it back then. 

Now, he wishes he’d known that Tony was right, that it must have been terrifying to have Peter dropped in a lake and on a split-open ferry and on a spaceship that might never return back to Earth. He’d only learned the terror of it when he’d bumped into Hawkeye’s wife, her youngest son clinging to her black skirt, looking up at Peter with huge eyes, his sister standing behind him with, considering Peter curiously. When he’d seen Morgan, so small in Pepper’s arms and her eyes so much like Tony’s, and how that had made Peter ache with how much he understood in those spare seconds. How he’d finally realized why Tony had tried his damned best to keep Peter safe.

“And look, I know everybody else has your back, and that I’m retired and in Missouri and not even half as superpowered as you. But I’ve got three kids, and I know a thing or two about helping people who are in way over their heads.” He turns back to meet Peter’s eyes. “So. Take it or leave it. I’ve got the fastest quinjet in the country. I’m not an on-duty superhero anymore, but I can sure as hell be an adult who helps a kid out when they need it.”

He’s so _lucky_ , Peter realizes. He’s so lucky to have met Tony, to have been accepted into the Avengers. To have all these incredible people on his side. “Thank you.” He wishes he was knew how to say how much this means to him, but even the Academic Decathlon couldn’t teach him the words to encapsulate his full gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem, kid.” Hawkeye looks over the horizon. “Damn, I feel like I’m giving this speech to progressively younger people. First Nat, then Wanda, and now a literal teenager.”

The wistfulness in his tone when he says that is a familiar one. It’s the same emotion that rolls through Peter whenever he tries to say Tony’s name. “I’m sorry about Black Widow,” he says, because he’s heard before that she was a close friend of Hawkeye’s. “I wasn’t sure if there was a funeral for her.”

“Nah, she specifically banned us from having one.” Hawkeye smiles with sad fondness. “Just left instructions for who to get what and then told us to knock back some shots of vodka and be done with it. Typical, really. So a few of us got together and got plastered. She’d have been proud.”

“How long do you think,” He’s not even sure what the question is until it’s already out of his mouth, “it’ll take for things to get better?”

It’s a question he’s never dared to ask, even to himself. It feels wrong to ask it at all, but the pain echoing through Hawkeye’s voice and etched on his face mirror’s Peter’s own, and he feels like if anybody would give him an answer Peter could understand, it’d be him.

Hawkeye gives the question the consideration it’s due, and slowly lays out his thoughts. “It’s different for every person. And getting better doesn’t exactly mean getting over it completely. Whatever the case, it’s okay for you to get better in your own time and in your own way.” He looks up at the sky. “Some people go throw themselves into their work. Some people let themselves fall apart so they can piece themselves back together. Some people,” he says, tilting his head to look at Peter, “need time to accept that somebody they loved is gone and that it’s okay to move on.”

It’s like a clean shot straight through his heart. Peter looks away, eyes burning, and he hates how easily Hawkeye strikes at the core of the matter, something even Peter couldn’t discover in his own self.

“It’s okay,” Hawkeye says, and it’s not a comfort directed at Peter, exactly. It’s more a statement of fact. “It’s okay, you know.”

“I miss him,” Peter grits out, and he can’t stop the way his breath shatters apart on those words, the way his vision blurs over. It’s not a particularly surprising fact; it’s a phrase he’s already uttered a dozen times, but the confession takes on an entirely different meaning now. It’s the explanation for everything. The truth that he can’t face.

“I know.” Hawkeye sighs, like he’s resigned himself to the hurt that will follow him for the rest of his days. “I miss them.”

Peter inhales, getting his breathing under control, and rubs his face so he doesn’t look a complete mess. He looks back at Clint and offers a weak smile, and Clint smiles like he’s proud of him. It’s not quite the same as making Tony proud, but it’s enough, Peter thinks. This is okay.

“Does getting free rides on the quinjet come with the package of helping a kid out, Mr. Hawkeye?” He asks with a grin.

Hawkeye laughs, standing up. “Fine. Yeah, it does.” As Peter whoops and climbs to his feet, he says, “And Peter? Call me Clint.”

-

He visits the memorial that’s been newly built in front of the old Avengers tower, which was built to commemorate those who gave their lives on the battlefield to repair their broken world. It’s a smooth slab of granite, sculpted to resemble a giant capital A, reminiscent of the Avengers logo that used to belong on the tower and the old compound. Names of the deceased are carved onto the front-facing side of the sculpture, and at the very base of each leg, there is a name engraved larger than the others. One leg has _Natasha Romanoff_. The other says _Anthony Edward Stark_. 

Flowers and candles are piled around the memorial, practically a mountainous memorial of its own. Peter squeezes through the people crowded around the monument and lays down both of his bouquets on top of the offerings that people have already placed. Bright red and white orchids in front of the leg with Black Widow’s name, and red carnations in front of the leg with Tony’s.

Once he’s paid his respects—without crying, miraculously—he edges away from the monument and turns to end up face to face with Nick Fury.

“Peter Parker,” he says. “What a coincidence.”

Peter has a sneaking suspicion it isn’t a coincidence at all, but he doesn’t have the courage to accuse him of it. “Hi, Mr. Fury. Funny seeing you here.”

“Funny indeed,” he deadpans. “I’d like a word.”

“Right now?” Peter squeaks. “I mean, I’d love to, but I have to go, see, because there’s a thing. I have a thing. Maybe next time?”

The look in Mr. Fury’s one visible eye says just how unconvincing Peter is. “Let’s cut the bullshit. Follow me.” He turns away and walks, as if he knows Peter will have no choice but to follow, and Peter obeys, because he’s fairly sure saying no to Nick Fury is a bad idea, and also because if this is about to turn into a talk about Avengers stuff, Peter can’t have that conversation around all these people.

So he follows Mr. Fury into a nearby Barnes and Noble, where it’s big and busy enough to feel anonymous, but also where there aren’t too many people milling about in the history section. 

“I hear you’ve finally said yes to inheriting what Stark left you,” Mr. Fury says without any small talk whatsoever.

“How do you know that?” Peter hasn’t told anybody except May and Pepper over the phone. “Are you bugging my calls?”

Mr. Fury rolls his eyes. “Relax. Contrary to what people think, I’m actually capable of making social visits to people, including Pepper Potts. She got your phone call right before I came over.”

“Oh.” That makes more sense, in a normal way, which feels like a weird thing to say when it comes to Nick Fury. “Okay. Um, and what does that have to with you talking to me?”

“I’m here to ask if you’re inheriting more than money and his intellectual playground,” Mr. Fury says. “I’m asking if you’re ready to step into his shoes, too. Not all the way, because they’re big shoes to fill, but are you ready to be an Avenger? I want to know if you’re ready to be the hero he wanted you to be, because the world needs as many heroes we can get, these days.”

Peter thinks of the suit tucked away in his backpack at home. He thinks of looking in the mirror and seeing a glimpse of Spider-man, almost wholly himself again. “Not now,” he says. “Not yet.”

Mr. Fury reads between the lines. “But you will be.”

“Yeah,” Peter admits, and it’s dizzying to say it aloud. As exhilarating as a free-fall from the Empire State Building, as freeing as swinging a wide open arc upwards into the air. “I’ll be ready.”

-

When he arrives at the cabin twenty minutes early, there’s a motorcycle parked outside of it. Peter doesn’t know whose it is until he sees Captain America—well, the original one—open the door and step out. “Peter.”

“Captain,” Peter says, before he realizes that might not be the right title anymore, but the older man huffs a laugh and corrects him before Peter can fumble his way through the faux pas. 

“It’s just Steve,” he says, offering his hand with an amused smile. “I’m retired, now.”

“I guess you’re overdue.” Peter’s mouth moves without his permission as he shakes Steve’s hand, and he’s already cringing at what he’s going to say next. “Since you’re like, a hundred years old now.”

Steve blinks, then bursts into laughter, one hand coming up to muffle the sound of it. “God, you’re right. I’m telling that to Sam when he asks me again if I’m sure about retirement.” 

“He’s going to be a great captain.” Peter has only talked to Sam twice so far, but he’s already sure that Sam will make a great leader. He was so confident in his role as captain, giving orders to the people roaming the wrecked compound and talking Peter through their current setup and Peter’s role in it for the foreseeable future. Peter doesn’t doubt that he’d easily follow Sam’s orders, when it comes down to it.

“He will,” Steve agrees. “And you’ll make a great Avenger.”

Wow, Peter didn’t know he could feel sledgehammered with awe this hard, but he’s very close to spontaneously combusting on the spot. “I, uh, oh god. That’s.” He gets a grip on himself. A very weak grip, but a grip nonetheless. “That means a lot to me.”

“I do hope you finish school though,” Steve says, which does make him sound like the old man he supposedly is. “And I know Sam told you steer clear of anything out of your pay grade for now, but I know a little about picking fights with bullies, even when they’re too big for me.” 

He pulls out a notepad and pen, and jots down a phone number, then rips the page out and hands it to Peter. 

“I know I can’t tell you to stay out of trouble, but if the trouble is more than you can take on alone, you’ve got backup.” This time when Steve smiles, it’s almost mischievous. “Even if it’s an old centenarian like me.”

Peter has a whole collection of superhero phone numbers now. He wonders how his life has turned into this weird, wonderful kaleidoscope of emotions and adventures. “Thank you,” he breathes, tucking the paper away reverently into his jeans pocket. “What are you going to do from now on?”

“Maybe travel a little.” The answer is unhesitant and sure, as if Steve thought about this for a while until he settled on a conclusion that satisfied him. “I’ve made a list of places I want to visit. And it’d be a nice change of pace to go on a trip that’s not for a mission.”

“That sounds great.”

“Tony did tell me to go get a life,” Steve says, and the name isn’t a stab through Peter’s sternum anymore. Just a dull throb. “I’m not sure if it’ll qualify if I spend most of my traveling lending a hand to people who need it, but this is my version of that. Having a life.” His eyes slide from Peter to behind him, where the motorcycle is parked. “Seeing the world will be nice,” he says, “but I’ll always come back, I think. Bucky likes Wakanda, but he agrees that Brooklyn is home, no matter how many years have passed.”

Peter knows the exact sentiment. No matter where he goes, what kind of hero he becomes, Queens will always be where he returns to. 

Steve’s comment though, it shakes loose a memory that Peter had forgotten about until now. “The time machine,” he says. “Tony left it to you. What are you going to do with it?”

“Well.” Steve lifts a hand to brush the back of his neck, his gaze flickering to the ground then to Peter. “We used the tech to replace the stones, since the timelines would have gone to hell otherwise.” Peter shudders against the memory of the stones gleaming in the gauntlet, the cold-hot weight of them in his arms as he raced through a battlefield. “And then we got rid of it.”

Peter blinks. “The…You got rid of what?”

“The tech for time travel. We destroyed all of it, including the data and any of the equipment. We knew it was dangerous to have it; things like that only serve as a temptation.” Steve makes a face, like he hates the words he just uttered. “So we got rid of it.”

“Did you think about going back, to the time you used to live in?” Peter asks. It’s the first idea that comes to him when he puts ‘Steve Rogers’ and ‘time machine’ in the same sentence. It would have been so easy to go back home, and to have not done that—

“I did,” Steve admits. “And I think that’s why he left it to me. So I could make a choice.”

“And you chose to stay,” Peter says.

“I’ve built a life here, even if it’s not the time I grew up in.” Steve spreads his hands, palms up. “And Tony died to protect this world. I’d never forgive myself from running away from it.”

Peter wonders if Tony would be disappointed or proud of Steve’s choices. He wonders what it must feel like, to shoulder the loss of your loved ones and still march on.

He thinks he just might learn what it feels like.

“He was mad at you,” Peter blurts, and it’s the worst thing to say, and it’s years ago for Steve anyway, but this is important. He wants Steve to know this. “He didn’t talk much about it in front of me, but I knew he was mad at you. He always said that when you came back, he was going to make you grovel.” 

_When_ , not _if_. Steve face crumples at the words.

“He still believed in you,” Peter says. He doesn’t know how much these facts might have changed over five years, but he needs Steve to know, just like everybody else has been trying to let Peter know, just how much Tony Stark cared. “He always kept the shield ready for you.” 

It wasn’t the same as a suit, but Peter thinks it meant the same thing anyway. 

Steve spends a moment glassy-eyed and square-jawed, and for a terrible moment Peter thinks he just might have made (former) Captain America cry. Then Steve breaks into a smile, the most honest one Peter’s ever witnessed from him. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Of course,” Peter says. 

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you from Pepper, and I should be heading back anyway.” Steve claps a hand to Peter’s arm. “It was good talking to you, Queens.”

“Brooklyn.”

Steve makes to let go, then hesitates. He looks at Peter, then says, “You’re why he came back to us, you know.”

“Huh?” Peter squints in confusion. “What?”

“Tony,” Steve clarifies. “He didn’t want to attempt making time travel tech at first. He thought it was a fool’s errand, and he was happy with his life as it was. But he tried and succeeded anyway. He came back to the Avengers anyway.” He softens his voice. “You’re why he tried.”

All the oxygen is gone from Peter’s lungs. “I, that’s not—how would you know that?”

“Because I knew he considered losing you as his biggest failure,” Steve says. “And he wanted to rectify that more than anything else.”

Peter doesn’t know what to make of that. “I wasn’t the only one who was gone.”

“Tony’s always wanted to save the world,” Steve says. “He had a heart and a brain that were both bigger and better than any of us could have ever understood, and he would have done the right thing in the end. Because that’s who he was.” His words waver for a moment, as if the words are as hard for him to say as they are to hear for Peter. “But you were the one he wanted to bring back more than anybody else.”

“What are you trying to say?” Peter asks.

Steve stands straighter, as if he means his next words with as much seriousness as he can muster. “That he loved you.”

Peter can’t say anything back.

“He loved you enough to reinvent the world.” Steve squeezes his arm, urging Peter to understand. “And you deserve to know that.”

He doesn’t know what else to do, so Peter flings his arms around Steve and crushes him into a hug. Steve doesn’t hesitate to hug him back, holding him tight as Peter tries his hardest not to sniffle into Steve’s shirt. He kinda fails but Steve doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t tell Sam I cried on you,” Peter jokes weakly.

Steve smiles, his eyes red-rimmed. He squeezes Peter’s arm once more and releases him. “Scout’s honor.”

It’s quiet as Peter watches Steve throw a leg over the motorcycle and turn the ignition, but then something falls out from under Steve’s shirt and dangles from his neck, glinting in the sunlight. 

Peter stares, because he’s seen that shade of paint before. “Is that…?”

Steve looks down at the smooth shard hanging like a pendant—like a soldier’s dog tags—from a silver chain around his neck. “Yeah,” he says with a hint of ironic humor. “It’s part of the shield.”

He must read the question on Peter’s face, because he chuckles.

“Sam’s shield is a backup Tony created a few years back. Pepper told me it was in hidden in their shed after the funeral.” He tucks the shield fragment back in under his shirt collar. “The original I was using was broken, so I asked Shuri to use a piece to make me a keepsake.”

Peter remembers glancing at the shield for a brief moment when he’d returned to Earth, mournful of the legend it represented, but he’d forgotten about it quickly in the face of battle. To be reminded of the shield, hacked to pieces, sends a wave of melancholy washing through him. “Tony would have hated that it broke.”

“And then he would have gone nuts trying to make a better version of it.” Steve grins. “Sometimes I think he liked having things break just so he could upgrade them.”

That makes Peter laugh, because it’s true. “Yeah, sounds Like Tony.”

Steve drums his fingers against the handles of the bike. “For him, failures were only stepping stones to greater things.”

“Like how I was his greatest failure?” Peter asks, unable to help himself.

“ _Losing_ you was his greatest failure,” Steve corrects. “Do you know what that means?”

“Not really,” Peter says.

“It means,” Steve says, “that getting you back was his greatest achievement.”

-

“Peter.” Pepper greets him at the door and graciously doesn’t mention how red Peter’s eyes must be. She beams at him in a way that makes the tension bleed out of Peter’s shoulders. The cabin is so cozy and Pepper’s smile is so welcoming; it’s impossible to feel uncomfortable in the face of such warmth. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Thanks, Pepper,” Peter says. “It’s really good to see you, too.”

She looks pleased, even when Peter talks too fast, too awkward. “It’s really been such a long time since we talked properly. Here, come in. Make yourself at home.” She ushers him into the living room space. “Let me get you something to drink. Orange juice, right?”

After he’s settled in on the couch and Pepper’s set a glass of juice in front of him, she sits in the armchair diagonal to him and folds her hand on her lap in a smooth, elegant movement. 

“I’m so glad you decided to accept your share of the inheritance,” she says, absolutely genuine. “I know it must have been hard for you, but I know giving people ridiculous amounts of money and incredibly thoughtful presents at the same time is Tony’s way of expressing his affection.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Peter says dryly. He’s already seen enough evidence of that over the couple years he was Mr. Stark’s so-called intern. 

Pepper laughs. “The Stark charm. But he was trying his best, and I could never fault him for that.” She smiles sadly down at her clasped hands. “Sometimes I thought it might have been easier on him if he didn’t try so hard all the time, but that was Tony for you. He always wanted to be better. To make things better.”

And in the end, he died doing exactly that.

“And I think that’s why he loved you so much,” Pepper says, looking up. “You tried so hard to be better, and looking after you made Tony better, too.” Rhodey had said that, too. “You made him a better person.”

_I wanted you to be better,_ Tony once said.

“Do you really think so?” Peter isn’t so sure. He knows Tony cared about him more than Peter ever knew. He knows losing him hurt Tony badly. But he doesn’t know if he was worth that much love and pain. If he wasn’t just a disappointment. “I feel like all I did was let him down.”

He doesn’t see the expression Pepper makes because he’s too busy trying to blink away the rush of tears, but then there’s a kind hand on his rubbing his shoulder, a soothing voice saying that it’s okay, that she’ll be right back. 

It takes a while for Peter to calm down. He hadn’t realized how much it’d hurt to say those words out loud, but once he’s got a grip on himself again, he realizes there’s somebody poking a small head over the arm of the couch’s other end, dark eyes peering up at him. 

Peter tries to smile. “Hey.”

“Hi, Peter,” she chirps, ambling over to climb into the seat beside him. “I’m Morgan.”

It’s surprising that she knows his name, given that they hadn’t really interacted at all at the funeral, and this is their first conversation. “Hey, Morgan. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” she repeats, and she’s the most adorable thing Peter’s ever seen. 

“Did your mom tell you my name?” He asks.

Morgan shakes her head. “Daddy did.”

Gravity seems to go funny for a moment. “He—when?”

“A long time ago,” Morgan says, which is probably the best he’s going to get from a four-year-old. “And a longer time ago,” Morgan adds. “And before that.”

More than once. 

“Did he say anything else about me?” Peter asks. His whole world is going to pieces.

Mortan hums, swinging her legs as she frowns in concentration. “He said you were science-y.”

“Science-y,” Peter echoes, smiling in spite of himself.

She nods. “And you talk a lot. Like, three-thousand.” She smiles when Peter giggles. “He said you’re reckless.” She says the last word slowly, like she’s sounding it out, unsure what it means. “But strong. And brave. And really, really good.”

Peter’s voice breaks when he says, “He said all that?”

“And more,” Pepper’s voice says as she re-enters the room, a USB drive and something else in her hands. “Here.” She takes Peter by the wrist and urges him upright, then tugs him into an adjoining room, with Morgan tailing them. There’s a large surface screen table in the middle of the room, and when Pepper taps it to life and places the USB on the table’s surface, the contents of the drive are projected above the table in hologram form. “He kept this in the safe for years.”

Peter stares at the pages and photos displayed in the air, uncomprehending, until Pepper gestures for him to take a closer look. He steps to the table and slowly slides past each file, disbelief coalescing into comprehension flooding into an overwhelming tidal wave of emotions.

There’s a collection of video footage of Spider-man. There’s the dumb video journal Peter first took on his trip to Germany and sent to Happy as a joke. There’s every news article about Spider-man collected in a staggeringly large folder. There’s a photo of the trophy Peter’s team won in his junior year Academic Decathlon. Clippings of Peter mentioned a handful of times in his school newspaper. The award he won for his science project at the end of sophomore year. Specifications for Peter’s suit. Records of his fights and victories and all the data Tony collected over the months, trying to find how to bring out the best in Peter.

“I asked Daddy,” Morgan sing-songs, “if Peter can be my big brother, but he said no because Peter’s not here anymore.” She tugs on Pepper’s hand, imploring, turning big dark eyes just like Tony’s towards her mom then Peter. “But he’s here now, so can he be my big brother?”

Peter chokes on a sob, barely keeping himself from breaking down into tears. “I don’t know,” he tells Morgan. “Your mom has to say yes, first.”

When he looks up, Pepper is smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears. “You were like a son to him,” she says, and passes him what turns out to be a framed picture of him and Tony, the silly photo they took together holding the Stark Internship completion certificate. 

“God,” Peter breathes, his heart breaking apart.

“You asked me,” Pepper says, “if I really think you made him a better person. And I do. Because Tony said you were a better version of himself. He thought you were the best thing he ever could have made, Peter.” 

She places a hand over his own, squeezing his trembling fingers as he clutches the picture frame. 

“He was so proud of you.”

Just like that, Peter falls apart, sobbing into his hands with wretched, heaving gulps, crumpling to his knees, splintering apart into jagged shards. He’s breaking into pieces as he feels two sets of warm arms wrap around him, letting him unravel within the safe space of their embrace, until he’s laid bare, flayed open and raw. Until Pepper and Morgan start putting the pieces of him back together.

-

The lab is located only a short distance away from the cabin, easily accessible for whenever Tony felt like tinkering away. When Peter steps inside, it doesn’t break his heart like he thought it would. The hurt is still there, but it’s more of an aching bruise than a sharp laceration wound. This place was Tony’s, just like the money Peter will inherit. And he can reject that all he wants because accepting it feels like an admission of Tony’s death, but it still won’t change the fact that Tony isn’t coming back. This is the inheritance he must accept: that he’ll never see Tony again, no matter how much he wishes otherwise.

The lights blink on, and Friday’s voice, kinder than usual, asks him if he’d like to have Karen connect with the lab control system so she can be his primary interface. Peter says yes, and his voice is steady, if a little choked.

As Karen activates the screens and delivers a report of the equipment, Peter makes a slow circle through the lab, tracing the surfaces of the shelves and counters, tapping at the screens and flipping through holograms. It’s absolutely the kind of space Peter had secretly been hoping to earn his way into some day, and he wishes, viscerally, that Tony were here to show him the ropes. To teach Peter all the things Peter doesn’t know yet. To be here, just so Peter could tell him, _you were like a father to me, too_.

He can’t have that, but he can carry Tony’s legacy on his shoulders and march on. He can make himself better, make the world better, and make Tony proud even if he’s not here. 

“Oh,” Karen says, “Somebody wants to say hello.”

“Huh?” Peter turns and there’s a familiar metallic arm clicking at him. “Oh my god, Dum-E!”

Dum-E clicks his arm inquisitively, then makes a whirring noise. 

“He misses Tony,” Karen passes on, and Peter would cry all over again if he had any tears left in him. “He’s been told that Tony isn’t coming back, but he still misses him.”

“Me too, buddy.” Peter leans in and wraps his arms around the metal arm, pressing his face against the steel and closing his eyes. He feels the arm close around him in its own version of an embrace, and he gasps out a wet laugh. “I miss him, too.” 

_Look, Tony_ , Peter thinks fiercely, like a silent prayer. _So many people miss you. So many of us love you._

He breathes in. Hugs Dum-E tighter. “Let’s miss him together.”

-

Peter sits at the edge of a rooftop, facing an alley and high up enough he won’t be seen, and looks across the New York skyline. It’s a beautiful Sunday, full of sunshine and a smattering of white clouds, people bustling through the streets as families and students enjoy their day off. Peter’s spent a whole morning messaging Shuri and building lego models with Ned to catch up on all the ones they’ve missed out on for the past five years. He sent a text message to Sam just five minutes ago, and then decided to text all the contacts on his backup list as well.

It’s easier now, to sit up here and dangle his feet, to reminisce about leaving inane voice messages on Tony’s phone. It’s been getting easier since he started saying _my lab_ instead of _Tony’s lab_ , even if he still slips up sometimes. Since he accepted the money and followed Pepper’s example by setting aside more than enough for himself and May, and then donated the rest to charity. He’d specifically chosen charities dedicated to helping minors and young adults adjust to returning from the dead after five years.

He doesn’t think of it as rejecting Tony’s gift. He thinks of it as the way Tony shows he cares. The way Tony gives you not a time machine, but a choice to do what you want with it. What matters isn’t that Peter chose to give away millions of dollars; what matters is that the gift was Tony’s way of saying that he cared, and Peter doesn’t need to keep the money to know that, now.

And just like how giving away the money isn’t a rejection, putting the suit on again isn’t a betrayal. 

Peter takes a deep breath, then pulls the mask on.

He doesn’t hyperventilate. Doesn’t cry. Just breathes in, deep and shaky, finally feeling whole again. Like he can say _Peter Parker is Spider-man_ and believe in it with all his heart.

He won’t have Tony to bail him out anymore. For the first time, he’s a Spider-man without an Iron Man to back him up, and it’s a lonely thought. 

But there’s the entire Avengers roster and half a dozen retired heroes on his speed-dial. There’s May waiting for him at home and Ned three blocks away and Morgan who hugs him whenever he visits. There’s a whole life and world that Tony protected for their sakes, and Peter would never forgive himself if he squandered any of it. 

He’ll always miss Tony. But moving on doesn’t mean he has to stop or forget. It just means it hurts less. 

So Peter’s going to move on as best as he can, at his own pace and in his own way.

His phone dings with a dozen messages congratulating him, encouraging him, telling him that they’re only a phone call—or in a certain Supreme Sorcerer’s case, one teleportation—away. They tell him to be careful. To have fun. To get in trouble but not too much of it.

The new Captain America texts him: _Welcome back, Spider-man_.

Peter grins and pockets his phone. Careens over the edge of the rooftop and dives into free-fall, until he catches a building corner with a web and swings his way into the streets of Queens to the sounds of whoops and cheers from the people below, and he laughs the whole way.

**Author's Note:**

> *The New York State Orchid Garden does not exist, but let's say it was created in 2020.
> 
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